Being Barry Bonds

What if you broke the most hallowed record in all of sports...and almost everyone was angry at you for doing it? What if you became the Fall Guy for a generation of drug abusers? What if you were arguably your generation's best in the sport you played, but had very little chance of making the Hall of Fame?

What if you were Barry Bonds?

I know, you wouldn't be. You're too squeaky clean, too honorable, to committed to the integrity of your industry. You never cheated. Not on your taxes. Not on your wife. You never stepped outside the lines of propriety in order to get ahead. You never looked for that angle, however immoral or illegal, to give yourself a leg up on your competition.

Plenty have. Plenty have paid for it, too. They got their pink slip or their prison jumper for their troubles. So, you don't feel sorry for Barry Bonds. The guy could have been the least bit likeable and maybe this would never have happened. He could have stayed clean...or at least come clean when he was interrogated under oath. Jason Giambi did. He took his lumps for it, too. But he won't face prison time. Barry may.

I am in no way defending Barry Bonds. I'm not. But I refuse to celebrate the indictment of the man who is the face of a problem much greater than himself. He wasn't alone in his cheating. He wasn't the only one shooting up so he could bulk up. He was just the only one who did it while assaulting a hallowed record.

I imagine it isn't much fun, being Barry Bonds. I doubt it was a great deal of fun even when he was smashing the record-setting tater. Probably wasn't any fun when his achievement was mocked and an asterisk burned into the historic ball he hit out of the park. It was even less fun when he was served notice that a grand jury had indicted him.

Being Barry Bonds has to be a pretty lonely feeling. But somebody had to be Barry. Somebody had to bring this house of cards tumbling down. Who knows where it will end? How many will be forced to own their mistakes, their duplicity, their cheating, their law-breaking?

Maybe...just maybe, this turns the tide. Or, maybe it at least stems the tide. Perhaps, at long last, the playing fields will be level again, and the athletes who do it the right way will have a crying chance. Maybe the madness will end...and we can all return to believing in Santa Claus, happy endings, and the integrity of professional sports.

If so, I will celebrate that.

But I will not celebrate the fall of Barry Bonds. Self-destruction is not a pretty thing. It isn't fun...or funny. It's just...sad.

Come Winter

Come Winter, it'll all be gone.

November already? Here in Dallas it has been in the eighties all week long. Doesn't feel like my favorite time of year. Doesn't feel like Summer or Spring either. Doesn't feel like much of anything. (In case you haven't noticed, I am sometimes given to melancholy.)

Fall is my favorite season. I love the cool, crisp cleanliness of the air. I love it when the sun is bright, but the wind nips at you anyway. I love it when it is too cool for short sleeves but not time to bundle up. As much as the weather, though, I love that it signifies the coming of the Holiday season: that time between Halloween and Christmas...my favorite time of year.

I am a sentimental, sappy sucker for the pageantry of the holidays. I love the feel of it, the look of it, the sound of it. I just do. But there are always little moments...when I am alone with my thoughts and emotions. During those moments, I feel the chill in my soul, the longing for something I can't quite define. Sometimes it is a distant, even faint, memory. Sometimes, it is a scent that brings back a flood of all-too-vivid memories and makes me long for yesterday. Other times, it is just this gnawing cognizance of the rapidity of passing time. I lament the passing of some moment I ought to have cherished and, ironically, miss another, current moment I will surely mourn later.

My least favorite month is January. I know it marks the birth of a new year. The slate is wiped clean and here is a fresh new start. But I am hardly ever completely prepared to lay the old year to rest, first of all. Second, in Texas, January usually means ugly, bitter cold to go along with those post-holiday blues.

So, I am thinking all of this when I find the lyrics to the song, Come Winter, by Daphne Loves Derby:

The First Day of fall is the last day I'll kiss the sky...The cold air surprises my bones have been spoiled by the summer's heat...The sun hides its face, and I'll hide mine too...Sooner or later this winter will rain down and leave me to wait for one year...I'll be there, I'll be there...Next year this time, I'll be there...I'll dream of the past, and wish that I was there....I am burning the letters of days gone by...I'm so sorry, but I'm scared that my heart will regret the things that I've done...Breathe in all of the ashes of my mistakes....Gently collapse so no one will notice that you're falling too short of your breath...I've wasted more time dreaming than living...I've wasted more time dreaming...I'll be there...So cherish these days, enjoy every breath like it will be the last of your life...Please never look back because you won't forget why you cried.

Ah, sweet melancholy. Come Winter, I always feel it.

And yet I dare to say, "Come, Winter."